


Tumblr Prompt Drabbles

by merulanoir



Series: Loose Ends and Patchworks; Prompts and Ficlets [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 20:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16940283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir
Summary: Several drabbles, based on the cute prompt list that circulated Tumblr a few weeks ago.Every chapter features a different pairing, I'll list all of them in the tags and at the chapter titles. :)





	1. Eskel/Lambert

**Author's Note:**

> 53\. “Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?!”

Eskel woke up as someone knocked on his window. For a while he lay disoriented, trying to piece together where he was, until his eyes found the desk and the chair.

The dorm, right. He had got back late. Hell, it was still late, or early, depending on how you wanted to look at it.

Another knock drew his eyes to the window and he sat up. For a while he felt apprehensive about the dark shape that loomed behind the glass, but then he saw a familiar jacket in the glow of the streetlight.

“Lambert, what the fuck,” Eskel said as he pried the window open. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Move,” Lambert grinned. Eskel rolled his eyes as Lambert scrambled in through the window, almost managing to land on his face in the process. Eskel yawned as he sat on his bed, knowing full well his protests about night-time visits would not be acknowledged.

The younger man straightened up and looked at Eskel. “Do you have ice cream?”

Eskel flopped on his back and groaned. “Who the hell crawls through someone’s window at 4am because they want ice cream? There’s a damn store down the street.”

Lambert looked at Eskel like he was particularly stupid. “But I wanted to have it with you,” he explained, as if to a five-year-old. He sneaked out of the room and returned a moment later with a tub and a spoon. He sat on the bed and nudged Eskel until they were pressed close.

“I missed you too, jerk,” Eskel chuckled.

 


	2. Tissaia/Rita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 89\. “I’m not leaving you.”

Rita couldn’t help herself. As Yenna left the bathing chamber, slamming the door, cursing young Cirilla under her breath and swearing to punish her, Rita succumbed to laughter. She buried her face into her hands and laughed until her belly was hurting, managing to spill some wine on herself.

“I don’t see what is so funny.”

Rita peeked through her fingers. Tissaia was frowning at her as she fidgeted with her towel.

“Oh, let me think. I _just_ told the little one to seize the day, to put it bluntly. And off she goes!” Rita giggled.

Tissaia sniffed, trying to look stern and reproachful, but Rita knew her too well to be fooled. She wasn’t alone in finding Yennefer’s ward amusing.

“Oh, I do hope Yenna finds her, though,” Rita smiled, stretching as she got up from the chaise longue. “I’d love to have young Cirilla as my pupil.”

“Then maybe you should go after them, make sure Yennefer doesn’t scare the girl out of her wits?” Tissaia’s voice was dry.

“Pah. I’m not leaving this perfectly comfortable chamber and my pleasant company to run through the countryside in the middle of the night,” Rita scoffed. “Cirilla appeared clever enough to find a way to placate Yenna.”

“She seemed intelligent,” Tissaia amended. Then she shook her head. “But her temper leaves much to be desired.”

Rita snorted. She walked over to Tissaia and bent over her chair. The woman arched an eyebrow, but didn’t say a thing.

“And here I thought you had a soft spot for the rebellious ones,” Rita purred, leaning down until her nose brushed against Tissaia’s cheek. “Or is my memory doing me a disservice?” She pressed a kiss under Tissaia’s ear, and smiled when she felt her pulse quicken.

Tissaia pulled back enough to look her in the eye. A small smile was quirking her severe mouth, softening her features immediately.

“You may have to remind us both.”


	3. Geralt/Regis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 87\. "You were never just my friend."

The bloodlust receded like a nightmare releasing its hold; slowly, trickling through his being, and leaving Regis feeling dirty and hollow. He slumped forward in the cage, and the metal bit into his wrists.

Geralt was by his side in an instant, wrenching the door open and then, showing his gentler side, gathering Regis up and holding him close. Regis’ stomach was turning and his head ached, and he couldn’t find the strength to hold himself upright.

“You lied to me,” Geralt growled. “You didn’t tell me this would be an equivalent of torture to you.” His voice cracked as he lowered them both down.

Regis opened his eyes, meeting the glare with a steady gaze. Geralt was kneeling on the flithy floor, not letting Regis go.

“And I would do it again. This is too important,” Regis said. He hoped Geralt would let him go, would stop looking at Regis like he had been betrayed.

“Bullshit,” Geralt said in a constricted voice. “I had to watch you die once, and now this?” The hand that was at the back of Regis’ neck twitched.

Regis swallowed and closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear looking at Geralt, not when his golden eyes were tearing apart all Regis’ carefully constructed explanations, shattering the age-old resolve to ignore the pull Regis felt whenever Geralt looked at him. The vampire felt his heart give a painful twist, as it always did when he had to remind himself that this was not allowed.

“I am sorry, Geralt,” Regis whispered. “But sacrifices need to be made—”

“I don’t care!” Geralt shouted at him, cutting Regis off. The witcher gave him a little shake, ever careful of Regis’ fragile state. “Shut up and listen, I don’t give a shit about this job. I only got you back and I can’t lose you again.” Geralt seemed a bit taken aback about his own outburst, but continued staring stubbornly at Regis. He was biting his lip so hard it was threatening to bleed.

Regis felt his love for Geralt try to overwhelm him. The proximity was making his body feel like it was too sizes too small for him. Geralt smelled of blade oil, sweat, and leather, and Regis allowed himself to draw in just one deep breath before attempting to build the wall again. He couldn’t let this show; and still, in all possible universes Regis would have chosen to feel this way, would have fallen all over again in love.

“I understand the thought of losing a friend causes you pain, and I apologize for that,” Regis said carefully, watching Geralt’s face darken. The witcher released the lip he had been worrying and drew in a breath, as if steeling himself for more pain.

“You were never _just_ my friend,” he murmured, eyes bright and pained. Geralt cupped the back of Regis’ head more gently. “And I can’t lose you again.”

Regis blinked, his ever-chattering mind suddenly very silent. Geralt wasn’t letting him go, but he was watching Regis like he expected to be hit or pushed back.

Very slowly, Regis lifted his hand and brushed his fingers against Geralt’s cheek. The witcher’s eyes widened and he leaned into the touch, clearly trying to understand what was happening.

Regis had no clue himself, but when he closed the distance and pressed his lips to Geralt’s, it didn’t matter any longer. What was important was the shuddering exhale suddenly tickling his lips and the way Geralt seemed to go slack with relief when he kissed Regis back, a hand fisting into his hair and another one pulling him close.

 _You won’t lose me, my love,_ Regis thought as he kissed Geralt and tried to believe that after all these years, the witcher was finally his. _I will always stay by your side, because that is the only place in this forsaken world that still has the light._

 

  



	4. Emhyr/Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 58\. “I’d die for you. Of course, I’d haunt you in the afterlife but really, it’s the thought that counts.”

Emhyr squinted up at the hazy sun. He was feeling weird, like he had forgotten something important he knew he ought to be able to recall. He could hear birds chirping and insects buzz, and a question floated to him.

_Where am I? How did I get here?_

Emhyr looked around again. He was standing on a road that curved around a hill, disappearing behind it. There were no people in sight, only birds singing merrily in the bushes. He tried to reach back, but found nothing inside his head that would have explained why he was suddenly standing in a place that resembled the place where he had spent his summers as a child.

For the lack of anything better to do, Emhyr started to walk towards the hill. The road was unpaved but smooth under his boots, and suddenly Emhyr was aware of old pains having disappeared. He’d had a persistent throb in his left shoulder ever since an assassination attempt had broken the bone there, but now the joint felt as good as new. Emhyr took quiet stock of his body and discovered nothing was hurting. He was feeling better than he had in years.

He walked around a dense thicket of shrubbery and stopped dead on his tracks. Geralt was leaning against a rock, watching straight at Emhyr and smiling, as if he’d been waiting for him. A desperate rush of relief flooded Emhyr at the sight. He crossed the distance and stood before his lover.

If Geralt was here with him, he was safe.

“Hi,” Geralt smiled, reaching for Emhyr’s hands and drawing him close. Emhyr yielded to the tug, resting his head against Geralt’s chest and breathing in his smell. Sunshine and leather, and the cologne Emhyr had given him years ago.

“Where are we?” Emhyr asked, allowing Geralt’s presence to soothe his nerves.

Geralt pressed his lips against Emhyr’s temple. “You don’t remember?”

Emhyr shook his head and looked at Geralt. The witcher was suddenly looking sad, the golden eyes darkening as he wrapped his arms around Emhyr’s waist.

“Do you remember the ship?” Geralt asked quietly.

Emhyr opened his mouth to say no, he had no recollection of anything, but then he froze.

_Flames. So much fire, and he was choking. Not only because of the smoke, but because horror was strangling his shouts and making them come out weak and pleading. More fire, and then the absolute certainty that the white-haired man lying on top of him was…_

Geralt squeezed Emhyr tighter. “I’m sorry. I’ve been here a while longer, so I worked out what must’ve happened. I kept fearing you would come after me.”

Emhyr blinked rapidly. “The ship exploded,” he rasped, feeling his head swim as the truth started to reveal itself. “How- What did you do?”

Geralt cupped his cheek and looked apologetic. “It must’ve been the fuel. I smelled the explosion coming too late and jumped in front of you.”

“You died to save me,” Emhyr said, his voice emotionless and flat. What he had feared had happened, and he couldn’t feel a thing. His chest felt hollow and echoing. Distantly, Emhyr remembered Geralt lying on top of him many years ago, smiling giddily.

“ _I’d die for you. Of course, I’d haunt you in the afterlife but really, it’s the thought that counts.”_

It had originally been said in jest, something akin to what Geralt often blurted out when he was sated and happy, but the words had stuck with Emhyr.  He had carried them inside his heart all these years, because he was just a human. He absolutely hated the idea of Geralt dying for him, but the sentiment that had been buried under the light words had curled inside him, reassuring the constant worry that Geralt would leave.

“Well, yes,” Geralt said, his eyes briefly closing with pain. “But I didn’t succeed. That’s what I meant with fearing you’d come after me.”

“I’m dead as well.” Emhyr felt like he maybe should’ve realized this earlier. His childhood summer home had been burned to the ground by the usurper.

Geralt pulled him close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Emhyr forcibly pulled back and glared at him. “Stop apologizing, you self-sacrificing idiot.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched at Emhyr’s familiar fire reigniting. He kissed Emhyr lightly on the lips. “I did promise I’d haunt your afterlife, didn’t I? Where are we?”

“Near my childhood summer home,” Emhyr said, taking a look at their surroundings, until the rest of what Geralt had said registered. “You remembered those words?”

Geralt chuckled. “Of course. My only fear with dying was that I’d have to spend the rest of eternity without you.”

Emhyr felt a rush of scorching love for his witcher, then. He kissed Geralt, allowing himself to feel a tiny bit relieved. It was finally over, and no matter how much of a monster Emhyr had been, he had been granted this.

Another thought dampened the relief, and Emhyr pulled back, trying to blink away the tears that he could feel coming.

“Cirilla will grieve.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed with pain as he looked into the distance. “She’ll survive it. Maybe we’ll see her later.”

 


	5. Regis/Dettlaff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 75\. “I’m going for a swim. Do you want to join me?”

Regis wakes to tender fingers brushing against his cheek. When he opens his eyes, he sees Dettlaff crouching by the bed. Torchlight is flickering behind him, making the shadows dance and bounce on the walls of the cave.

“I was thinking of going for a swim. Do you want to join me?” Dettlaff asks. His face is more relaxed now that the worst is over; now that Regis can stay awake for longer than a few hours and even stand on his own, even if that one still leaves him drained.

“I’d love to,” Regis says as he sits up. He bites his tongue at the words his wayward mouth chose, but Dettlaff didn’t seem to think anything about them. Regis stretches, shaking off the tendrils of sleep, and allows Dettlaff to help him up. Leaning on Dettlaff is easy, it comes to him like a second nature by now, as they make their slow way out of the cave.

Regis knows the cave is located several miles from the closest town. It’s a man-made hole in a cliff side that cradles a small pond, maybe a former bandits’ lair. Regis has no idea how Dettlaff had come across the place, but it doesn’t really matter. The surroundings are beautiful, and as far as living in a cave in the middle of a forest goes, Regis really doesn’t have anything to complain about.

Dettlaff lowers him on a tree trunk by the pond and begins to strip away his clothing. Regis watches the moonlight bounce off the water, glittering among the water lilies. Their delicate scent makes Regis smile.

Dettlaff’s hands alert Regis to the present moment, and he allows his companion to divest him of the modest clothing. Dettlaff has promised to get Regis something more comfortable once his healing is further along, and while Regis is used to his kind’s changing forms, he has spent too long among humans not to long for the sense of identity a garb of one’s own provides.

Regis had a stray worry about how the swimming would be conducted, but it disappears as Dettlaff helps him into the cool water and sits down behind him, hugging Regis close. Regis swallows as the sheer tenderness of the gesture threatens to drown him; he knows that soon the time to discuss future will be upon them.

Dettlaff is a gentle soul. He had no reason to help Regis, and he did it anyway, and Regis still has no clue how he will even begin to repay that debt. Regis wants to shower his blood-bound with affection, because his heart is weak and aching and it yearns to love Dettlaff.

They have been living in each others pockets for over a year, and during that time Regis has seen how Dettlaff’s careful smiles have grown more unreserved as they got accustomed to being close to each other. In the beginning, Dettlaff had insisted on sleeping on the floor, but when one too many nightmares left Regis shouting in his sleep, the black-haired vampire crawled into the bed. He held Regis through the night, and from then on physical contact became an increasingly mundane part of their slow existence.

Regis leans his head back, and Dettlaff presses their cheeks together. Water laps at his chest, cool and pleasant. The moon is almost full, reflecting from the surface of the bond and the mirage rippling when Regis or Dettlaff move.

“Thisis very pleasant,” Regis says quietly.

Dettlaff gives a content hum. “I thought you would enjoy to get out of the cave and see the moon.”

“I do, thank you.” Regis twists around enough to be able to look Dettlaff in the eye. “I like this place.”

Dettlaff actually chuckles, and his arms tighten where they are wound around Regis’ waist. “I’m aware of your preferences concerning places of habitation. When you’re better, we can go live in Nazair.”

Regis feels his stomach swoop. “We?” he echoes, not daring to believe the nascent, blooming hope that they would not part ways when he was whole again.

Dettlaff leans closer, brushing his lips against Regis’ cheek. He didn’t look even remotely nervous, as if this was only the next logical step in their quaint tale. Regis loses himself in the feeling, unconsciously pressing closer until Dettlaff is surrounding him completely.

“I have been hoping you would accompany me. Losing you would make me sad.”

Regis’ smile stretches wider. Maybe he has been making himself worry over nothing. He feels Dettlaff’s unflinching, reassuring presence through their bond, and it had remained immutable ever since Regis blinked his eyes open for the first time after dying.

“The feeling is mutual, my dear. I’d love to go to Nazair with you.”

 


	6. Emhyr/Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 71\. “Kiss me, quick!”

It happens too fast.

One moment, Geralt is standing next to Emhyr at one of those godawful balls the imperial court throws approximately seven times a week to show off the crown princess. Geralt is actually having a good time, because Emhyr has been offering amusing and frankly scathing remarks about the various guests, and something about the fact that it’s _Emhyr_ who is making an effort to amuse Geralt is good, in a weird way.

And the next, just as Emhyr is telling Geralt all about a sordid affair a noblewoman of the first rank is having, his eyes turn sharp and he _looks_ at Geralt, going “Geralt, quick. Kiss me.”

Geralt doesn’t even think about it. He lunges in, pressing his lips to Emhyr’s. There is nothing but white noise inside his head as he swallows Emhyr’s shocked exhalation.

It lasts maybe a few seconds. Or an hour. Geralt is only aware of the people around them going very quiet, and then his conscious mind catches up and he backs away.

Emhyr is looking at him like Geralt has just grown a second, polite head. Geralt backs straight into a table full of flower arrangements, rattling the vases, and still Emhyr is staring at him. So Geralt does the mature, responsible thing, and fucking bolts.

Emhyr finds Geralt in an unused nook of the library wing some hours later. Geralt, who is _not_ sulking, thank you very much, glares at the emperor. He doesn’t want to see the man right now. Emhyr ignores the wordless request for him to fuck off and sits down.

“What the fuck was that?” Geralt snarls. He tried to get drunk, but in the end he couldn’t bear to drink the excellent wine fast enough.

Emhyr cocks an eyebrow. “I might ask you the same.”

“You told me to kiss you!” Geralt not-shouts, throwing his hands up. He is _not_ freaking out about this.

“And you did,” Emhyr answers. He is looking at Geralt with narrowed eyes, like he sees exactly how badly Geralt is, in fact, freaking out.

“Well, yes, but-” Geralt sputters, suddenly realizing that at the ball he just reacted on instinct on words Emhyr uttered. The mere idea makes his brain perform a mental equivalent of a failed back flip. He falls silent, staring helplessly at Emhyr.

Emhyr has the damn audacity to roll his eyes. “It was a gamble. I have been hatching a plan to spread a rumor we are, let’s say, involved.”

“What?” Geralt asks in a choked off voice.

Emhyr shrugs. “You’re a popular man, and it would have worked in my favor. And at any rate, I didn’t think you would actually do it. I was counting on being treated to an indignant expression of dismay, which would have had another, an equally favorable effect.”

“What,” Geralt repeats. He’s still stuck at the bit where his mind had just up and obeyed. He didn’t even _like_ Emhyr.

Emhyr watches Geralt closely, and suddenly the bastard grins. “Ah. You’re feeling shocked because you did it without thinking, and you liked it.”

Geralt’s head whips around so fast his neck cracks. He opens his mouth to protest, but right then his fucking traitor of a brain decides to offer up a memory of Emhyr’s lips (very soft) and how he smelled when Geralt cupped his cheek and leaned in (unfairly nice, like the fine brandy he had been drinking and something warm and inviting.)

Emhyr moves before Geralt can pull his brain back together and tell him to go screw himself. The emperor seizes Geralt by the collar of the horribly tight doublet and pulls him closer, almost close enough to brush their lips together. Geralt’s brain short-circuits, his body immediately alight with _want_ that confuses him, but not nearly enough to pull back.

“So the way to get you to shut up is to kiss you,” Emhyr murmurs. “Had I known it was this easy, I would have done this much earlier.” Then he leans in, and Geralt abandons trying to understand what the hell was going on, allowing himself to drift away, because it is good, damn it all.

 


	7. Geralt/Dandelion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 91\. “I remember everything.”

A few nights after they parted ways with Torque, Geralt noticed Dandelion growing quiet. The devil’s company had kept the bard in a good humor. When it was just the two of them again, Geralt realized he alone wasn’t enough to keep Dandelion from thinking about the elves of Dol Blathanna.

Geralt’s suspicions were confirmed that same night. He fell asleep quickly, but awoke a few hours later. Dandelion was sitting by the fire, plucking his new lute and seeming deep in thought. Geralt sat up from his bedroll and went to throw a log into the fire.

“Everything alright?”

Dandelion shook his head, staring into the flames. “The words of Lille came to me in my dream. I remember everything she said.”

“And?” Geralt sat down next to his friend.

“And they haunt me, Geralt!” Dandelion looked at him, distressed. “Because what is the use of building and creating, if something will eventually come and tear it down?”

Geralt searched for words. Dandelion set his lute aside and hugged his knees to his chest. “And it is us, humans, who are destroying things so old we haven’t the capacity to comprehend their age,” he muttered. “What is the use of composing a ballad, writing a poem, when it, too, will be forgotten?”

Geralt suddenly saw the healing wound on Dandelion’s cheek. Once more the witcher was forced to face the fragility of ordinary humans, and wasn’t that just what this moment needed, another sad thought to put out the fire?

Geralt pulled Dandelion closer without a word. The bard rested his head on his shoulder, and Geralt pressed a kiss to his hair.

“Lille spoke of hope,” Geralt said quietly. “That’s really all we have. I think ballads give people hope.”

Dandelion looked up, and a small smile was playing at his lips. “Really, now? I thought you hated my ballads.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too. “Just the ones you write about me.”

Dandelion’s hand brushed against Geralt’s neck and drew him down for a kiss. Geralt smiled against Dandelion’s lips, brushing his fingers through the dark hair. It was comfortable to have this, a lover who refused to be tied down as adamantly as he did.

When they broke apart, Dandelion smiled a bit wider. “I am still going to write them. The world needs those songs.”

Geralt rolled his eyes again and pulled the bard into his lap.

 


	8. Emhyr/Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 57\. “Teach me to fight.”

“Geralt, on your left!”

Geralt turns as fast as he can, and he’s almost on time; his sword parries the blow, but it’s twisted sideways and the enemy’s blade cuts his elbow as it slides away. Geralt blasts the guy backwards with _Aard_ and throws a knife at his throat. The fact that he has to pluck the knife out of his own thigh seems irrelevant at that point.

When he is certain that was the last of the assassins, he turns around again and lets out a breath of relief. Ciri is alright; she’s holding a dagger Geralt knows she carries under her ceremonial outfit at all times. She’s bloody up to her armpits, but smiling.

“Thank you, Geralt,” she says, glancing at the corpses littering the audience chamber. “I will need to have a word about enchanted artefacts with my captain of the guard.”

Geralt shivers at her tone, because while Ciri is his daughter, she is also an _empress_. Her threats sound more sinister than Emhyr’s ever did.

 _Speaking of_ , Geralt thinks as his eyes find the emperor emeritus, who is checking his heir is undamaged and in danger of biting his own tongue off to stop himself from making some heads roll. Emhyr is fine, too, but his tunic is soaked with blood from where the assassin bled out on him after Ciri dealt with the guy.

Geralt swallows thickly, because it was a close call. The assassin had an elven dagger pressed against Emhyr’s throat when Ciri acted faster than ever and stepped through time and space to slit his carotid artery.

A wave of dizziness hits Geralt, and he remembers he is bleeding from approximately five places. Damn imperial court and its customs of not allowing him to wear armor during official audiences. He’d fought tooth and nail to be allowed to carry his sword, and he swears he’ll start bitching about the garments again.

He casts a quick glance at the wound on his elbow, but the dagger wound on his thigh is more acute; it has apparently nicked an artery, because bright red blood pulses out. Geralt sits down and presses his hand to the wound, sighing. As he lifts his gaze to call out to Ciri, a large, warm hand gently pries his away and puts more firm pressure to the cut.

Geralt looks up and his eyes widen when he realizes the hand is attached to the former emperor. Emhyr meets his eyes calmly.

“Your hands are shaking. Have you lost a lot of blood?” Emhyr asks. Geralt opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Summon a healer,” Emhyr orders one of the servants, and the woman scurries away. Emhyr’s eyes find Geralt again, and now his brow is furrowed. Geralt resists the urge to bite his lip, because while he and Emhyr have been on the verge of _something_ for months now, Geralt hasn’t been ready to take the next step. It would change everything, and since neither of them are actually talking about what the charge between them is, Geralt is hesitating.

Emhyr looks down at the wound, still frowning, but now the expression is slipping towards something more human, like suddenly the emperor has stepped out of the picture and it’s just Emhyr. He looks worried.

“I couldn’t help you,” Emhyr says very quietly. “I wanted to, but I was not confident in my abilities.”

Geralt shifts and grimaces as pain shoots up his elbow. “The whole point of me being here is to keep you from having to fight,” he says, shrugging and then cursing under his breath. He’s getting old, damn it.

Emhyr doesn’t flinch, but something shifts on his face. He clears his throat, and holy shit, is he _nervous_?

“It is not the only reason for your presence,” he says, very quietly.

Geralt’s ears start to ring. He blinks a few times, as if wanting to make sure it really is Emhyr currently holding onto his thigh. It is.

“Oh. Well,” Geralt says, eloquently. Emhyr opens his mouth, the mask already back in place, and Geralt suppresses a groan. Fine, they are apparently doing this now, while trying to prevent him from bleeding out.

“Not that I don’t like being here. You know I do,” Geralt blurts out. It’s pretty pathetic, but Emhyr’s eyes crinkle just a little.

“I’m glad,” he answers after a short silence. “Now, after you have been treated, I have a request for you.”

“You do?” Geralt asks, apprehension and curiosity battling each other.

“Teach me to fight.”


	9. Yennefer/Triss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 89\. “I’m not leaving you."

“Is that him?”

“Yes, the one with the satchel.”

“Are you sure he’s a… you know?”

“I saw him transform at Stygga.”

“He looks pretty harmless.”

“Appearances deceive. From what Geralt told me, he is almost five hundred years old.”

“Well, considering the fact that Geralt was with _you_ at one point, Regis really doesn’t seem very ol- Ow!”

“One more word about my age and I swear…”

“Oh yeah? Color me curious, Yenna.”

“I did pack the handcuffs.”

“I like the way you think.”

“Hm, see? They are sitting rather close to each other.”

“I still think it’s hilarious you’re so curious about them.”

“Oh, please. Not like I proposed the wager. If you’re not intent on winning, go ask them.”

“As if I’m leaving you and spoiling the fun.”

“Look, Geralt is whispering something to him.”

“Can vampires blush? That is definitely a blush.”

“You’re seeing things. I still think it will take them at least until Yule to get their shit together.”

“Oh, you of little faith. I just know Geralt will lose his patience before summer is over. Regis will not know what hit him.”

“Hm, that reminds me of someone I know…”

“Yes, yes, you managed to surprise me back in Skellige. Not like I had hidden anything from you.”

“Mm, that is still one of my better decisions.”

…

“Do you think they’ll miss us if we sneak upstairs?”

“Triss, right now I don’t give a damn.”


	10. Geralt/Regis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 55\. “Our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?”

Geralt ducked under a low-hanging branch and came to a stop. He had thought he knew the surroundings of Corvo Bianco fairly well, but the map Regis had left him had led him to a small lake he had never visited before. It was nestled between hills, a secluded spot an hour’s ride away from his home.

Geralt took in the unmoving water, which was reflecting the last pink hues of the sunset. As he walked to the grassy beach, fireflies flitted out of his way, looking like small, wayward stars. The real stars we’re starting to poke holes into the darkening summer sky.

Regis was waiting by the water with a basket. He smiled when Geralt came to a stop.

“Alright, so what’s the big secret?” Geralt asked. Instead of answering, Regis stepped closer and brought his arms around Geralt’s waist. The vampire cast a questioning glance at Geralt, who leaned in for a kiss.

It was all so new. During the years they had known each other, he had touched Regis several times, but not quite like this: with an intention of simply enjoying how he felt pressed against Geralt, cool and unyielding. Regis’ arms felt safe around him, and maybe it was an odd thought to have, but Geralt felt protected.

Geralt had loved a lot of people during his years, but no one had made him feel like Regis; like the world was a tiny bit gentler because a quirky, chatty vampire had unexpectedly kissed him less than a week ago, and told Geralt he was loved, and who had been equally delighted to learn the feeling was returned.

Regis pulled back and grinned. “You must forgive me for this, but I am yielding to a sentiment.” He gestured towards the basket and then at the lake. “I happened to come across this place some time ago, and in the light of recent developments I thought I’d like to bring you here.”

Regis turned to rummage through the basket, pulling out a cloth and spreading it on the ground with a flourish. Geralt watched Regis’ easy movements, and only when the vampire arranged a bottle of wine, bread, cheese, and grapes on to the cloth he actually chuckled.

“Our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?”

Regis’ eyes crinkled with a smile as he sat down and pulled Geralt next to him. “The doctor in question deems it prudent you are treated to something nice every now and then,” he laughed, leaning on Geralt. “I wanted to do something to make you happy.”

 _You make me happy,_ Geralt thought, when the words hit him. Something about the way Regis was looking at him with soft eyes and holding his hand was impossibly sweet, and him outright saying he had simply wanted to do something to make his lover delighted was making adoration swell inside Geralt’s chest, warm and bubbly.

“Thank you. I like this a lot,” Geralt murmured, fighting down a blush. Regis cocked his head and watched Geralt closely.

“I have wanted to take care of you for a long time,” he said, bringing his hand up to cup Geralt’s cheek. A firefly flew past his face, and the fluttering light briefly illuminated his black eyes. “And now I can do that, because nothing would make me happier.”

Geralt leaned his forehead against Regis’ and sighed as his smile spilled over. It would take some getting used to, being taken care of.

 


	11. Geralt/Iorveth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 72\. “I will knock you on your ass if you even think about it.”

Geralt lost his patience with the guy manning the door three sentences in. He cast _Axii_ and felt a jolt of savage pleasure when the eyes staring at him went vacant. The door opened, and it wasn’t like Putrid Grove smelled any better than the rest of Novigrad, but it felt like a small step away from the pyres.

Geralt rubbed a hand across his face. It was so, so bad, much worse than he’d imagined, and he couldn’t do a damned thing to help; the smell of charred flesh seemed to clog his nostrils, and he knew he’d get to relive Felicia Cori’s execution in his dreams later.

He blew out a breath and looked around. The sky was dribbling cold sleet, and it served to make the enclave look even more desolate and inhospitable. People huddled under awnings, some peddling goods, some just trying to stay warm. A few kids were playing near the doorway, and Geralt thought he could smell something cooking.

Shaking his head, Geralt set out towards the only decent-looking shopfront, half hidden behind a dilapidated building. He had a good guess he might find the King of the Beggars there, and maybe the man could point Geralt to the direction of Triss. Not for free, obviously, but Geralt was feeling desperate enough to try; he needed to know if Triss had heard anything about Ciri.

Just as Geralt was passing the old building, he heard something that halted him on the spot. Soft notes were drifting from behind a cellar door, twisting into a melody that seemed to momentarily shield Geralt from the rain as memories resurfaced and made warmth bloom inside his chest.

_It couldn’t…_

The door was sturdy but unlocked, and Geralt opened it carefully. He could see a silhouette against the glow of a lantern, their back turned.

“I will knock you on your ass if you try anything.”

“Getting cocky in your old age?” Geralt asked as he closed the door and flipped the bolt in place. For some reason, he felt laughter bubbling in his throat, still hardly daring to believe his eyes and ears.

The elf turned around and lowered the flute. He didn’t smile, but his eye crinkled in a way that tugged at Geralt’s heart.

“As I recall, I’ve always been that way, _Gwynbleidd_ ,” Iorveth drawled. Geralt grinned and stepped closer, and Iorveth met him in the middle, wrapping his arms around Geralt.

Iorveth smelled of wood smoke and damp, and he felt thinner than Geralt remembered, but it was him alright. Geralt buried his face into the elf’s neck, because the expression he was wearing was surely something outright foolish.

“It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise. I kept wondering whether you’d come.” Iorveth pulled back a bit, but didn’t let Geralt step back. “I’ve been hearing rumors about you and your ward, _Gwynbleidd_. You’re getting mixed up in something big.”

Geralt shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary. You should know.”

That got him a crooked smile. Iorveth chuckled, the same dry sound Geralt had originally delighted so much in causing.

Geralt realized his hand had drifted up and was brushing against Iorveth’s undamaged cheek, hovering hesitantly before touching. The elf closed his remaining eye and leaned minutely into the contact.

“I’ve missed you,” Geralt said without thinking. It wasn’t the exact truth; _“_ _S_ _p_ _ent sleepless nights one after another while worrying myself sick about you”_ would have been closer, but he didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Whatever had been between them, it had remained unspoken, and then Iorveth had left Loc Muinne, and taken the answers with him.

Iorveth looked at Geralt steadily. The witcher felt a brush of fingers against the nape of his neck.

“Now I’m here,” Iorveth said in a hushed tone. “And I’m hoping we can once more help each other.”

“Anything,” Geralt said. His heart had been hurting a lot lately, but this here, it was the first bit of truly good news in weeks.

“You’re looking for Triss Merigold, correct?” Iorveth asked, and Geralt nodded. The elf nodded his head towards the direction of the fine building Geralt had spied earlier. “She is visiting Bedlam as we speak. We’ve been working together.”

Relief flooded Geralt’s belly, and he relaxed against Iorveth. The elf’s hand sneaked into his hair, blunt fingernails scratching against the scalp.

“I’ll take you to her in a moment,” Iorveth went on. “I just have one more thing I need to do first.”

The last words were uttered against Geralt’s lips.


	12. Geralt/Regis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 79\. “That’s the third time I’ve saved your life!”

Geralt blasted the last guy pressing him against the railing with _igni,_ and cursed when his expensive suit jacket’s sleeve smoldered, the burn stinging his flesh when the flames leaped back due to the close proximity. When the agonized shrieks finally died away, Geralt wheeled around, his eyes searching out Regis.

The doctor was still standing against the wall, unharmed and looking at him with narrowed eyes. Geralt swept his eyes up and down his form, but there was nothing besides some blood on his neck from where Geralt had stabbed the first attacker.

“You okay?” Geralt asked, walking closer. Once more he wondered where Regis got his unflappable composure; the doctor was breathing steadily and not looking at all like six armed guys had just tried to kill him with considerable talent for the task.

Regis glanced at the ground. “I am fine,” he said curtly. “Your excessive use of power, however, has left us no one to question.”

Geralt ground his teeth to avoid snapping back at Regis. He folded his arms and scowled when a stab of pain shot through his bad knee. “Couldn’t be avoided. In case you didn’t notice, they were trying to kill you.”

Regis mirrored his pose, his chin set in a defiant, even mocking angle. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but I presumed your job is to find out who is trying to kill me.” The doctor walked past him, glaring holes at the corpses. “You’re making it rather impossible to gather any clues whatsoever, because you keep killing the attackers.”

Geralt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A tiny voice residing in the brain part labeled “common sense” piped up a warning, but Geralt had made a habit of ignoring it. He grabbed Regis by the shoulder and turned him around by force. The doctor’s eyes widened, not with any semblance of fear, but utter surprise.

“This is the third time I’ve saved your damn life!” Geralt growled, trying and failing to reign in his temper. “You hate me for whatever reason, but I’m just doing my fucking job here. Not like I have a choice.”

Regis stared at Geralt, perfecrtly unmoving. His curious black eyes bore into Geralt’s skull. Geralt realized he was gripping Regis’ shoulder hard and loosened his grip. The doctor made no indication he had been in pain; his shoulder felt solid and hard under Geralt’s palm.

Suddenly Regis' eyes flicked to the stinging burn on Geralt’s wrist. Before Geralt could react, Regis had taken a strong grip of his hand and was peering at the injury.

“You are healing much slower. Why?” he asked, apparently unperturbed by Geralt’s violent outburst. If anything, he seemed to relax slightly.

Geralt realized he was staring and blinked, looking at his wrist. “Magical flames do more damage,” he said, trying to extract his hand and Regis refusing to yield it. The doctor kept squinting at the burn for a long while, and then finally released Geralt.

“I have something for that. Let’s go.”

Regis stepped over the bodies, deftly avoiding the spreading pool of blood as he went. Geralt had to jog after him, trying to understand what the hell went through his charge’s head.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess, this one is still my favorite of the bunch! I've been miserably busy with bullshit real life, but I swear I will start writing this AU as soon as my moving houses business is done!
> 
> If I forgot to tag something please let me know!
> 
> I'm on Pillowfort! https://www.pillowfort.io/merulanoir  
> And Twitter! https://twitter.com/merulanoir
> 
> There is one more mystery prompt I did, which I may publish in the future. *evil laughter*


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